


Helmour

by coruscera (impractica)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Foot Fetish, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Shoe Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impractica/pseuds/coruscera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike blinks. These aren’t just shoes; these are fucking <i>awesome</i> shoes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helmour

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t even really talk about how long ago it was when I wrote most of this, so… I won’t. The important thing is that I’m posting it, yay! Set sometime in season 1 or 2-ish—basically, during some magical/possibly nonexistent time when Harvey & Mike aren’t fighting or dating other people. Idk guys, this is just porn, let’s not overthink it. 
> 
> ALL the thanks in the world to the lovely linbot for betaing this multiple times & patiently wrangling my em-dashes (those that remain are my own stubborn fault), and for never, ever giving up on me. You’re my hero, bb. <3
> 
> And finally, the titular shoes are Louboutins and they look like [this](http://i841.photobucket.com/albums/zz333/coruscera/helmourshoes_zpsd149b894.jpg), if you need a visual.

Mike has been awake for twenty-one hours, forty-three minutes, and fifteen seconds.

That’s what’s going through his mind when he stumbles out of Harvey’s office at 1:58 am, tired and delirious and so sick of poring over contract addenda that he thinks he might puke.

Only, he probably _can’t_ puke, he realizes with a groan, because he hasn’t eaten anything since before noon, when he’d stuffed a plain hot dog in his face and dashed down the block before Harvey made good on his threat to leave for their deposition without him.

He slumps against Donna’s desk and tries to get his brain back online. Harvey sent him out into the hallway to “do a lap and pull yourself together, rookie, Jesus,” curling his lip at the way Mike was holding his own eyelids open with his fingers, and Mike had gratefully taken him up on the offer.

Now that he’s thought about eating, though, Mike realizes he’s starving, so he digs shamelessly through Donna’s desk in search of food. He knows she’s got some hidden away here somewhere: he’s seen her winging protein bars to Harvey through his open office door between client meetings.

“Whoa, you throw like a quarterback,” he’d told her approvingly the first time he saw it happen.

“Yes, and I hit like a linebacker,” she’d replied. “So unless you’ve got a cup on under that department store special you’re wearing, you’d best run along and wait for coach to call your next play somewhere else, hm?”

And, yeah. He’s stayed well away from the sports metaphors since then.

As he roots around under a stack of legal pads in the top drawer, Mike chances a look over his shoulder to make sure Harvey’s not watching him through the glass. He’s not, thankfully: he’s got his feet up on the desk, and he’s totally absorbed in the folder propped open against his legs. But Mike can’t help but freeze for a second anyway, caught off guard for the umpteenth time by Harvey’s... okay, by _Harvey_.

Because, honestly: he looks like a spread in _Esquire_ , is the thing. Or whatever the fancier, less pedestrian, more exclusive version of _Esquire_ would be. Mike thinks photographers would probably strangle each other with their camera straps for a chance at this shot: Harvey Specter with his French cuffs rolled up and his tie loose, a lock of hair falling artfully across his forehead, soft lamplight smoothing his already striking features with a warm, golden glow. The figure he cuts against the stark backdrop of the cityscape outside is the perfect intersection of luxury, power, and sex.

Mike rolls his eyes at himself and returns to his search. So Harvey looks better halfway through an all-nighter than most people do fresh off a solid eight hours—what a shock. Harvey fucking Specter and his unfailing fucking cool.

The only drawer left to check is the big one on the bottom, so Mike pulls it open and gets down on his hands and knees to dig around behind the hanging files and... jackpot! He finds a stash of organic, all-natural, granola-nut something-or-others that he gleefully raids.

While he’s down there celebrating his victory, he notices a tan shoebox tucked into the corner under the desk. The box itself looks ordinary enough, but the swooping white script running across the top of it has him just curious enough—and stupid enough, Donna probably dusts for fingerprints daily—to pull it out for a better look. 

He hopes it’s a secret booze stash, because a drink would be really great right now. Or maybe it’s the fully stocked MacGyver kit Donna’s admitted to having but won’t show him. Or _maybe_ —and Mike grins, suddenly excited—it’s the extensive collection of voodoo dolls he’s convinced she has hidden somewhere (it would explain so much, seriously).

When he tips the lid open, though, there’s just a fuzzy red drawstring bag inside that looks decidedly shoe-shaped. He sighs. Shoes are so boring. 

But then, on a whim, he works open the bag anyway and slides one of the shoes out, holding it up in the light that’s slanting through the wall of Harvey’s office, and—whoa. He blinks. These aren’t just shoes; these are fucking _awesome_ shoes.

Mike lets out a long, low whistle as he liberates the other one from the bag and cradles them both in his lap, sliding his hands over their slick surfaces. He’s not a foot fetishist by any stretch, but these babies are pure sex: the deep, wine-red shine of the patent leather wraps neatly around most of the shoe, then dips away on one side to reveal the arch of the wearer’s foot. Even a non-fetishist can appreciate the artistry of well made footwear, Mike thinks, swallowing hard as he contemplates the wicked angle of the extremely high, pencil-thin heels. It’s really a shame they don’t make hot shoes like this for men.

He holds one down alongside his own foot and notes that the size doesn’t look all that off, actually. In addition to soft features, Mike has pretty dainty feet for a tall guy, so it’s not entirely impossible that he might be able to—

Before he can think better of it, he’s hopping to his feet and stripping off his own shoes and socks. He slides his foot in along the butter-soft interior of the shoe, and when his toes settle in against the rounded point and his heel pops down neatly into the back, Mike lets out the breath he’d been holding. They’re a perfect fit.

He glances up at Harvey again, still working away, and can’t help the grin that pulls at his lips. “Let’s see how cool Harvey Specter will be about _this_ ,” he says.

***

Mike saunters back into Harvey’s office, unwrapping his ill-gotten snack and taking an enormous, gnawing bite. He doesn’t say anything; he just chews noisily and waits.

And it doesn’t take long: Harvey’s patience for Mike’s allegedly poor manners is nonexistent—“ugh, puppy, keep the kibble in your _mouth_ , maybe?” was the objection he raised over lunch just last week, in fact—so it’s only a matter of seconds before Harvey’s head tilts toward the sound, his gaze still on his paperwork and his lips parting to deliver what will no doubt be a ruthlessly scathing remark.

When Harvey’s eyes catch up with the rest of his face, however, the naked shock that plays across his features is totally worth the ten wobbly, painful minutes Mike spent out in the hallway working on his stiletto sea legs. Harvey Specter is _speechless_.

“Awesome, right?” Mike cocks his hip out and settles into what he hopes is an appropriately modelesque stance. He even hikes up one pant leg a little for maximum effect.

Harvey stares at him, eyes flicking up, then down, then back up again. The stunned silence is maybe the crowning achievement of Mike’s adult life.

“It’s okay, I know.” Mike tosses his hair—well, his head, anyway—and pivots on his toe, executing the full-on pose-and-turn routine like he’s at fashion week. He purses his lips and fixes Harvey with a Blue-Steely kind of look. “It must be overwhelming how _really, really, ridiculously good looking_ I am.”

Harvey exhales, loud and long-suffering, and turns his attention back to his reading. Mike figures that’s a ‘no’ on the _Zoolander_ quote-off, then. “I hope you’ve notified your next of kin,” Harvey says instead.

Mike laughs. “Worried I’m going to hurt myself?” he asks. “I’m touched, Harvey. I didn’t think you cared.” He stuffs the rest of the granola bar into his mouth and chucks the wrapper toward the trash. It goes in and he does a teetering victory dance.

Harvey snaps his folder shut and tosses it down onto the desk. “I don’t,” he says, sounding bored. “I just don’t want to be the one who has to plan the funeral when Donna tears you limb from limb.”

“Oh, right,” Mike says through his mouthful of food. He tries to muster an appropriate level of terror, but honestly, his fear of Donna is little more than a dull hum; he feels too incredible to be scared. “Well, water under the designer heels, right? Not like there’s much I can do about it now.” He takes a few steps forward and strikes a new pose, this time with his knees bent and pressed together coyly.

Harvey makes a small noise that might be a laugh. “Uh, you could get on your bike and start riding? Immediately?” He looks at his watch. “The five-hour head start won’t be nearly enough, but you might at least have time to get your affairs in order.”

“You’re overreacting,” Mike says, even though he knows Harvey isn’t, not really. Donna probably _is_ going to murder him. Now’s not the time to show weakness, though, so Mike just strolls over to stand beside Harvey’s desk and thumb idly through the stack of files on it. “They’re just shoes, after all. How mad could she be?”

Harvey snorts. “Just shoes? Those bad boys probably cost more than your whole suit, my little fashion victim.”

“No way,” Mike says, letting his hand drop. “I spent almost three hundred bucks on this thing!”

Harvey makes a face. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says.

“And anyway, even if she does find out, I’ll just plead insanity,” Mike says, plowing ahead. “You’ve kept me here all night without food or sleep, so I’m not in my right mind. That’s a valid defense, isn’t it?” He screws up his face exaggeratedly and scratches his head. “How do laws work again?”

This time Harvey actually scrubs a hand over his brow. “Oh, god. I _definitely_ didn’t hear that.”

Mike grins and bounces a little on the balls of his feet, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “Aw, come on, Harvey,” he says, stretching a leg out to tap a pointed red toe against Harvey’s hip. “I’m trying to learn here. Do you really begrudge your eager young associate a little education?”

Harvey looks down, expression stony, like Mike has just scraped gum off onto the pristine material of his Tom Ford. Mike yanks his foot back so fast that he sways unsteadily and has to clutch the edge of desk to keep from falling over. He flashes Harvey his most charming grin.

“Pitiful,” Harvey pronounces.

Mike abandons the grin and focuses on righting himself.

“And if you’re really so eager to learn,” Harvey continues, grabbing a folder off the nearby stack and slapping it against Mike’s chest, “you’ll shut your smart-assed mouth and get back to work.” He arches an eyebrow and takes his hand off the folder, leaving Mike to scramble for it before it slides to the floor.

“Killjoy,” Mike says under his breath.

“Child,” Harvey says, not at all under his.

Mike sighs, defeated, and does his best sashay back over to the sofa, the file in tow. It’s stupid, maybe, but the novelty of the shoes takes most of the sting out of Harvey’s words. He plops down and props his feet up on the glass coffee table, one leg crossed over the other. The cuffs of his pants ride up a little, baring his ankles, and he idly rubs them together as he picks up a stack of nearby papers and starts reading.

It feels nice, he notes after a while, skin moving against skin like this. It’s relaxing. He lets one of the shoes slip off his heel to dangle from his toes, and that’s even better: now he can get his bare heel into it too, sliding it along the top of the other foot, over his ankle, and even up the front of his shin a little. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, just for a minute. _So maybe_ this _is why people go to stupidly fancy spas_ , he thinks. It’s probably a lot less weird without Louis there; maybe he can fake a twenty-four-hour flu bug when this case is over and just spend a whole day paying someone to rub his—

“Michael!”

Mike jumps a mile when Harvey’s voice booms through the quiet of the office. “I’m awake!” he yelps, almost stabbing himself in the ankle with the hard rubber tip of his heel. “Very awake, I swear! Eyes are open! Definitely not sleeping! Please don’t throw highlighters at me again?”

When he dares a glance over at Harvey, though, Harvey isn’t wearing the comically-outraged-yet-reluctantly-indulgent expression Mike had been expecting: instead, he looks a little tense, his lips pressed together and jaw clenched.

“Work,” Harvey spits.

“Okaaay,” Mike says, brattier than is probably wise. He flops back down into the sofa cushions. “No need to get all murder eyes on me, geez.”

Harvey lets that one go, but he’s not finished yet. “And while you’re at it, go put those fucking things away. I think you’ve made your point.”

Mike stills at that, because… huh? “Huh?”

“The shoes, Mike. Go put them back. _Now_.”

And—okay, this is officially weird. It’s not like he was even being obnoxious with them anymore, so why does Harvey give a shit? 

“I’ll do it before we leave, I swear,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You can sic Donna on me first thing tomorrow if I don’t.” He squares up his stack of papers and turns back to them pointedly.

“Mike,” Harvey says, “I’m serious. Lose the shoes.”

Mike scoffs. This this is a matter of pride now, damn it. “No.”

There’s a thick book open on Harvey’s desk and he thumps it closed. “Do I need to come over there and make you?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Mike volleys, marveling inwardly at his own daring. It must be the shoes: they come complete with a set of enormous brass balls. No wonder Donna’s so scary.

Harvey narrows his eyes. “Last warning,” he says.

Mike pulls an exaggerated imitation of the ‘this is serious business’ face Harvey’s making. “Bring it, Specter.”

And then Harvey does.

He jumps up from his chair and stalks toward the sofa. Mike half laughs, half gasps in surprise and throws his paperwork to the floor, hunching down into the cushions and waving a heel warningly in Harvey’s direction.

“Back off!” he chokes out between his hysterical barks of laughter, stabbing the stiletto through the air. “Harvey, don’t make me use these!”

Harvey closes in on the sofa and shoves the coffee table aside with his foot, stepping into range of Mike’s wildly swinging leg. He’s not smiling, and his eyes sparkle with an intensity Mike recognizes: it’s the same look Harvey gets in court when he’s about to nail someone’s ass to the wall.

“I said,” Harvey starts, and then he swoops in low, like a boxer dodging a punch, and closes a hand around Mike’s ankle with one well-timed grab, “take. them. off.”

Something flares in Mike’s gut: the promise of a struggle, maybe, or the feeling of Harvey’s hot palm on his skin, Harvey’s short but impeccably manicured nails digging into his Achilles tendon. Mike jerks his leg forward defiantly and Harvey comes with it, lurching in closer until his knees bump against the sofa cushion and he’s standing in the vee of Mike’s spread legs.

“No,” Mike says again, breathing hard.

“Yes,” Harvey says, but he sounds a little winded himself. His fingers flex around Mike’s ankle and Mike tenses, waiting for Harvey to snatch the shoe off and end this, set them both back to work. There’s a heat in Harvey’s gaze that has Mike’s heart pounding in his throat.

But the moment when Harvey should secure his victory comes and goes.

He looks down at Mike thoughtfully instead. “You know, as my… how did you put it? Eager young associate? You should _want_ to do what I tell you,” he says. “You should be anxious to please me.”

The spark of excitement Mike felt before roars to life, warmth spreading up into his chest like wildfire.

“What makes you think I’m not?” he says, surprising himself with how sincere the question is.

Harvey gives him the patented Specter Eyebrow. “You’re still wearing the shoes.”

“Oh, well.” Mike stretches, loose and languid, and it’s like someone else is driving his body when he crooks his free leg around the back of Harvey’s thigh and says, “That’s because I think it might please you more if I left them on.”

Mike freezes as the words leave his mouth. He didn’t _exactly_ mean for it to come out sounding that way, like the cheapest of cheap come-ons. Or maybe he did, he’s not entirely sure. Either way, it’s too late now: he’s said it. All he can do is wait and see how Harvey reacts.

Harvey’s face is unreadable for a long, terrifying moment. Then he finally smiles, a slow spread of his lips across perfect white teeth. “Is that so,” he says softly, stroking his thumb along the thin skin at Mike’s ankle. “And what else, dare I ask, do you think might please me?”

Mike’s heart hammers in his chest because _fuck_ , that’s definite intent in Harvey’s tone. He just kinda-maybe propositioned his boss and his boss is fucking _into it_.

Mike takes a deep breath and channels the awesomeness of the shoes, drawing bravado from them that he’s not sure he could muster otherwise. He shakes his other leg loose from Harvey’s grip and wraps that one around Harvey too, pulling him tight against the edge of the sofa. “Oh, I don’t know,” Mike says, dragging it out a little, because oh god, he can’t believe this is about to happen, “an eager, smart-assed young associate such as myself choking on your cock?”

Harvey’s eyes widen and his chest lifts on a sharp inhale. He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers flex hard against Mike’s thighs.

Mike decides that’s all the signal he needs to reach for Harvey’s belt.

“Arrogant little shit,” Harvey breathes, but he’s already shifting forward, dropping Mike’s legs and widening his stance so that he can sink his knees into the sofa on either side of Mike’s hips.

“Eager,” Mike corrects, trying to laugh through the nerves still thick in his throat. “ _Eager_ little shit.” His fingers falter against the brushed steel of Harvey’s belt buckle. He suddenly can’t even think straight with how much he wants Harvey’s cock in his mouth, pushing in deep and forcing that uncertainty back down.

Harvey slaps Mike’s hands away and works his own belt open in a series of quick, practiced movements. “Okay, fine, eager,” he says, still smiling, but also rolling his eyes in that dramatic valley-girl way of his. “Not overly coordinated, though.” He pulls his zipper down and tugs the hem of his shirt free, revealing a tempting stripe of flat, tanned stomach in the process. “What’s with that, anyway? Aren’t you part of the video game generation?”

“Whatever, I’m plenty coordinated,” Mike says, slouching down between Harvey’s spread thighs until his face is level with Harvey’s crotch. He plants his feet wide, the stilettos quivering precariously under his shifting weight, and throws Harvey a cheeky grin. “Or did you miss how I fucking _worked it_ in these shoes?”

Harvey settles his hands on Mike’s shoulders. “You were passable, at best,” he says.

“Passable?” Mike pulls open the expensive wool of Harvey’s pants and tugs the front of his boxer briefs down. Harvey’s cock bobs free, already hard, and Mike licks his lips in anticipation. “This is how you respond to ‘passable’?” he asks, glancing up at Harvey.

Harvey’s watching Mike with bright eyes and shiny, parted lips. “Mm, well. I guess your eagerness is rubbing off on me.”

Mike shakes his head and laughs. He has so much to say to that— _tons_ , in fact: the ‘rubbing off’ jokes aren’t going to make themselves—but he’s more interested in tasting Harvey’s cock than having the last word, so he surges forward and catches the head of it between his lips.

Harvey groans aloud at that first touch and the sound darts down Mike’s spine like lightning. Mike wants to go slow, wants to see if he can lick and tease until Harvey’s begging him for it, but Mike knows he’s not that patient. He needs to feel that hot, heavy weight riding against his tongue, bumping the back of his throat and filling his mouth with Harvey’s salty-bitter taste, so he grabs Harvey’s ass with both hands and jerks him forward.

Harvey sucks in a deep breath as he slides in and Mike’s throat relaxes to accommodate him. “Oh,” he says, and his voice wavers ever so slightly. He’s clearly still trying to keep his shit together up there, but Mike wants more: he wants to hear Harvey break, to know exactly what it’s like when Harvey fucking Specter falls apart. Mike pushes Harvey’s hips back and then pulls them forward, letting Harvey slide out to the tip and then drive deep into his mouth again.

Harvey’s thighs start to shake.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, and Mike can hear it now, creeping into the edges of his voice as he clutches at the fabric of Mike’s shirt. “Mike, I— _fuck_.”

_Yes_ , Mike thinks: _fuck_. He hums his agreement, forcing the sound out against the head of Harvey’s cock, and guides Harvey back and forth again in another thrust. Harvey is catching on, though: Mike doesn’t have to help quite as much the second time.

“Jesus, Mike, are you serious?” Harvey asks. But even as he says it, his hands are drifting up to rest on top of Mike’s head, his hips rocking back and then pushing forward again in the beginnings of a tentative rhythm.

Mike doesn’t answer—couldn’t even if he wanted to—so instead he just flexes his fingers against Harvey’s ass and tips his chin up eagerly, enjoying the stretch in his jaw and the wet slide between his lips as Harvey picks up speed and finally, _finally_ fucks his mouth.

With each of Harvey’s thrusts, Mike’s nose presses further into Harvey’s groin. He breathes in Harvey’s scent, thick and heady from almost a full twenty-four hours spent in the same clothes, and relishes the way all his senses are narrowing down to this: Harvey’s smell, his taste, the glide of his cock inside Mike’s mouth. And then Harvey starts making more noise, soft little moans on his exhales, and it’s almost too much. Mike presses a hand down against his own lap, trying to get enough friction to ease the dull throbbing in his dick.

When the heel of his palm grinds over the head, Mike realizes he could probably come this way, lightheaded and mouth wrenched open, pinned in place by the driving beat of Harvey’s hips. He can feel the precome smearing inside his boxers and he rubs himself faster, rushing toward the hot flood of release.

Harvey gets there first, though. When his fingers suddenly clench in Mike’s hair, it’s just enough to pull Mike back from the edge. It’s also just enough of a warning: Harvey thrusts once more, deep and slow, and it’s that sharp bolt of sensation along Mike’s scalp that helps him prepare for when Harvey’s whole body goes taut and he comes in long spurts down Mike’s throat.

Mike tightens his lips and lets Harvey ride it out, his face nestled against Harvey’s pubic hair. When Harvey finally pulls away, Mike swallows one last time and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, shifting his jaw around to work out the delicious soreness in it. He feels bruised and exhausted and—and _amazing_.

Harvey pulls his underwear back up and shifts so that he can slide to the floor between Mike’s feet. He draws a shaky breath and casts dazed eyes up at Mike.

He looks completely wrecked, Mike thinks with a little surge of triumph. Wrecked Harvey is even better than speechless Harvey.

The moment stretches on, though, and suddenly Mike’s not sure what’s supposed to happen next. He’s still painfully hard and would really love to get off, and having a flushed, debauched-looking Harvey Specter kneeling at his feet isn’t doing much to curb that urge. But Harvey’s not saying anything, just breathing hard and watching Mike with wide, dark eyes, and Mike finds that even after everything they’ve just done, he’s weirdly self-conscious about the thought of just whipping it out and finishing himself off.

After a few more beats of awkward silence, Harvey seems to emerge from his fog. He tips back to sit on his heels, pants still gaping open and stretching over his thighs, and his gaze drifts down to Mike’s obvious erection. Mike opens his mouth to make a flippant remark, something unforgivably stupid about how his cock is so very eager, too, but then Harvey drops his gaze further, to Mike’s foot, and Mike manages to stay quiet.

Harvey reaches out and traces the inner edge of the shoe, one careful finger following the line of red leather from the back of Mike’s heel down to where it crosses over the joints of his toes. Harvey doesn’t raise his head but he does glance up at Mike, tipping his head just enough to make eye contact.

Mike isn’t really sure what’s happening, but when Harvey moves his fingers over Mike’s exposed arch, curling them under to skim across that bare, sensitive skin, Mike gasps. Harvey smiles at him then, smug, like he’s discovered a secret.

When Harvey cradles Mike’s ankle in his palm and lifts the whole foot, bending forward to touch his lips to that same spot, Mike makes a quiet, choked sound in the back of his throat.

And when Harvey opens his mouth, hot breath and warm, wet tongue curling along Mike’s instep, Mike’s hips buck abruptly and he’s jerking his pants open before he can think twice about it.

Harvey chuckles and continues pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses onto Mike’s foot, over his ankle, up the back of his calf. “About time,” Harvey says, murmuring it against Mike’s skin.

“Oh really,” Mike breathes, getting a hand into his boxers and around his cock, and _fuck_ but it’s a relief to finally touch himself. “And here I thought you’d be—ah, oh god—offended if I dared defile my pants by coming in them.”

Harvey swipes his tongue up Mike’s shin. “ _These_ pants?” he murmurs, tugging on the fabric he’s got bunched halfway to Mike’s knee. “As far as I’m concerned, it can only improve them.”

Mike tries to laugh at that, but his breath hitches in his throat. He’s so close already that this isn’t going to last long, however much he wishes it would. And as he looks down to where Harvey is crouched between his legs, literally _kissing his feet_ , for fuck’s sake, Mike admits to himself that yeah, he’d be perfectly thrilled to have this go on forever.

Harvey opens his mouth against the knob of Mike’s ankle, a delicious, sharp scrape of teeth there, and Mike can’t hold in his ragged groan. “Harvey, fuck, I’m—I’m gonna—” Everything in Mike’s body goes tight and he slows his strokes, struggling to hold on.

“Mike,” Harvey says, sliding both hands up the backs of Mike’s legs and leaning in so that he can catch Mike’s gaze. “Go on. Come for me.”

And because Mike really _is_ anxious to please Harvey, after all, he arches against the sofa, bites down on his lower lip to keep from shouting, and does.

***

Mike lies there panting for a while afterward, his shirt damp with come and sweat. Harvey rocks to his feet and is clearly taking in the scene, his gaze traveling from Mike’s shoes, to his wrecked clothes, to his no doubt flushed face and destroyed hair.

“Well?” Mike asks, still trying to catch his breath. “Passable?” He tries to make it sound casual, but even he can hear the note of uncertainty in his own voice.

Harvey rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. “Fishing for compliments now, huh? Where’s all that big, bad confidence from before?” He tucks his shirt back in and rebuttons his pants, and just like that, he’s back to looking as composed as ever. Harvey’s own confidence certainly hasn’t gone anywhere.

“Hey,” Mike says, a little wounded, and it’s not entirely an act: deep down he knows how spectacularly all this could still go wrong, and the little thread of doubt unspooling in his gut is cold and heavy like lead. “I need your validation, remember? I’m just an inexperienced little associate over here.”

Harvey grunts. “I don’t know if ‘inexperienced’ is the word I’d use,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Harvey,” Mike says, exasperated. He’s not looking for flattery, but he doesn’t know how to ask the real questions he wants Harvey to answer.

“ _Michael_ ,” Harvey answers. But then his expression softens and he reaches down, grabbing Mike’s tie and twisting it around his hand until Mike has to prop up on his elbows and lean forward.

“We’re good?” Mike asks, his voice low and suddenly hoarse as Harvey’s face draws closer.

“We’re great,” Harvey says, and when their lips meet, Mike can feel Harvey’s smile curving against his own.

***

The next morning, Mike is fucking _terrified_.

As he steps off the elevator and makes his way to his desk, he keeps a wary eye out for murderous redheads lurking in the shadows. The shoes never did make it back to their spot beneath Donna’s desk: Harvey argued that Mike’s giant man feet had irreparably stretched out the leather, and it was probably true. So, instead of waiting for her to notice the shoes’ absence and commit a double homicide, Harvey’s plan was to preemptively cop to an ill-conceived rookie hazing incident and hope the promise of several replacement pairs would calm the worst of her wrath.

Mike wants to believe it will work, he really does, but he’s still jumpy as hell as he makes his way to his desk. Even if Donna buys Harvey’s story, her uncanny spidey sense will probably still clue in on the fact that this is really all Mike’s fault.

While he waits for his computer to boot up, Mike flops down in his chair and stows his bag under his desk. He’s exhausted: at Harvey’s urging, he’d headed home for a much-needed shower and some rest around three, but when his head had finally hit the pillow, he’d found that he didn’t much feel like sleeping.

Instead, he’d stretched out across his sheets and imagined that Harvey was there with him, their hair still damp from the shower and Harvey’s hands stroking possessively over Mike’s bare skin. Mike doesn’t know if he’s allowed to want that kind of thing now, if it’s way outside the bounds of the late-night, high-heeled, impromptu boss-fucking scenario to even be thinking about this shit, but they didn’t really discuss the long-term implications of what happened and Mike finds he just can’t help himself. He lets his mind drift back to their kiss, the way Harvey had tipped them both backward and licked into his mouth, and Mike just can’t help but wonder what it would be like to wake up to that some lazy Sunday morning: Harvey’s slick tongue pushing between his lips, Harvey’s slick fingers pushing in elsewhere, working him open.

Mike shakes himself out of his daydream and turns his attention to the stack of files on his desk. He recognizes them as the ones he’d been reading the night before and grabs the first one off the pile, resigned to another long day of tedious reading.

When he picks up the folder, though, there’s a swatch of soft red fabric underneath it that makes Mike’s breath catch. He slams the file back down hastily, paranoid at first that it’s some kind of trap. But when Donna doesn’t pop out of any nearby corners and put him in a choke hold, a giddy voice in the back of his mind whispers to him that maybe this means something else.

Mike lifts the file again and looks down at the folded material. The red is brighter in the light of day, the elaborate black script looping across the front richer and darker, but it’s still unmistakable: this is the shoe bag, and there’s only one person who could have put it here.

The crisp white corner of a sheet of paper peeks out at Mike from between the folds of felt. He slips it out and thumbs open the creases, and he can feel the huge, dopey grin stretching across his face before he even starts reading.

> _Holding the evidence at my place for safekeeping. You’re welcome to come claim it anytime. Modeling may be required to prove ownership, however._
> 
> _I’ve been told my wet bar would make an excellent catwalk._
> 
> _H._

Still grinning, Mike refolds the note and bag and tucks both into his inner jacket pocket. They make for a bulky lump against his chest, but he doesn’t care. He likes feeling them there, likes that he’ll be able to catch Harvey’s eye across the conference room table later and smile, secure in the knowledge that the heat he’ll let slide into his gaze is welcome, that Harvey wants it, that Harvey wants _him_. 

And anyway, Mike has more important wardrobe concerns right now than whether he’s marring the line of his cheap suit: he needs to figure out where he can score a killer cocktail dress in his size during his lunch break. Because if he’s going to work the Specter runway later, he’s going to do it _right_.


End file.
